


Lit by the Sun

by noblewriting



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, freakin' cuties, just a tender healthy couple ignoring their impending doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblewriting/pseuds/noblewriting
Summary: Interconnected episodes of Plumette's life.





	

She came to the castle when she was young, only eleven or twelve, and looking for work. With Paris drenched in sweat and death and plague, there had been no home there for her anymore; and the castle in the gardens, with the sun shining on it like it would never end, seemed to promise that there she could be safe. She was clever enough not to knock at the front door, and rounded to the back, holding her few possessions close to her. She knocked, and the door opened, and warm hands took her in.

Mrs. Potts made sure she had tea and toast before she could start, and by the time she ended the kind woman's face was grave and sad.

"Many's there that died before they could get out," she said. "You were wise to come to us. Another slice? No? Well."

Plumette's eyes ranged around the room, taking in the friendly objects and the warmth and sunlight. It was so different here, compared to Paris; it was so alive.

"I'll have to speak to Mr. Cogsworth," continued Mrs. Potts, "but I shan't be surprised if he lets you stay. In an upstairs position, too, I should think; that silly maid he has now has worn out all patience from here to kingdom come. She can go back to the village, and you can stay with us."

Plumette did stay. That night she spread out in a feather bed—oh, it had been such a long time since she had had a bed like this!—and she felt a smile twitch at her face again, a new feeling after so long being quiet and still.

* * *

 

The first few years were good ones, full of sunshine; as long as Plumette dusted away from the Prince's father, she had no reason to worry. Every one liked her, and she had nothing to complain of—but those first few years seemed dull compared to the life that came later, when she had just turned fourteen.

"I am through with these village knick-knacks!" Cogsworth rumbled. "Idiot, bumbling, slow-minded, block-headed fumblers, all of them! They can go into the fields like scarecrows, all of them. We need a proper footman around here, one that won't trip over his own feet at a party."

Plumette hid her giggles. Cogsworth had been the one to trip last night, but he had blamed it on the nearest boy.

"I am going to write out and see if I can get someone with more refinement," continued the majordomo. "Proper manners! Preferably an army man. Someone quiet, genteel, unnoticeable. Someone rather more like me. Shouldn't take more than an hour or two."

Plumette glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Cogsworth's concept of time must be different from hers, if that's how long it would take to find another him.

Weeks later, and still no responses to Cogsworth's letters. Standing in the kitchen, Plumette polished the silver and hid her smiles at Cogsworth's latest tirade.

"It shouldn't be this difficult! The state of decay in this country is intolerable," he cried.  "The next one that shows up, I'm taking. They can't be any worse than this lot. I threw that last boy out by his ear."

"It is painful to be thrown out by the ears," said a new voice from the doorway. "I hope you think of something more original for me."

The whole kitchen turned around at the voice, and Plumette found herself peeking. A Parisian? After so long?

Only fifteen, the boy standing in the doorway looked smarter than paint: yellow vest, cream breeches, the latest styles that she'd only seen in fashion plates. Though his wig was slightly askew—it looked like he had run all the way here, just for the fun of it—he was smart, and trim, and laughing. Plumette loved it, not him, just _it_ —the way the whole world around him was lit by the sun. And she could tell he loved the _it,_ too.

"I don't want any mockery of protocol," Cogsworth was saying, "and I shan't have any liberties taken with etiquette—"

"What! No, of course. Why would we mess with etiquette? Ah, pardon me—" The boy was rescuing the table setting, rearranging glasses and forks, somehow flipping them and turning them as if they could dance. "—I just notice that your desert spoon is not quite right. It goes here, above the plate. And the white wineglass goes before the red."

"...really," said Cogsworth, and for once Plumette thought she heard a tick of admiration in the man's voice.

"Yes. But as you were saying! I would not dream of interrupting the way you do things here," said the boy. He had gotten to the stove, Plumette noticed, and somehow taken over for Mrs. Potts in stirring the sauce. "What you do is _tres magnifique_! I only wish to serve."

"Well...I suppose," grumbled Cogsworth. "I'll give you a week to prove you deserve to be a footman of ours."

"I'll be your best," said the boy, and winked at Plumette.

* * *

 

"What do you mean, you weren't raised by royalty?" Plumette was laughing. "Your manners are the finest. Your fashions are the most current! You cannot convince me you were not raised by the Sun King himself." Plumette didn't care a fig where he was raised. He just needed to keep talking.

"No, no! You misunderstand me, mon petite chou. Of course I was the King of my lane," and Lumiere was laughing, too, just to see Plumette keep laughing. "But I am the son of quite ordinary folk, I assure you. I learned to dance as a way to _rebel_ ," and he swept her into a waltz, and her dusting was quite forgotten, and it was lucky then that the prince's father hadn't come in. The prince's father would not care for how hard they were laughing, as they flew past all the beautiful objects he cared for so much; he would prefer it if they focused on the things they tended to, and not the people they were.

"Wigs! And dancing! As _rebellion_? Such sweet anarchy!" and Plumette collapsed, laughing, and Lumiere had to help her up. She was only sixteen, and he was her best friend.

"You are light as a feather when you dance," he observed. "But you fly off the handle at the smallest thing! Is there anything so strange about a workingman's son having some _panache_?"

"It is the strangest thing in the world," said Plumette, "and a transformation I refuse to abide." And she was still laughing when he kissed her hand.

* * *

 

He came to find her when she was crying. "Ma cherie? Ma cherie. You cannot stay in there forever."

"I can. I will. Go away, Lumiere."

"This is a lonely tower." He was standing outside the door, but he wasn't coming in. In her feather bed, Plumette stirred and cooed, with tears running down her face. "Don't remain out of my reach. Speak to me."

"He shouted." Plumette buried herself further in her blankets. "He calls me in, then mocks the way I do my face, then asks me to try some rouge on his. And then he shouts that I've got it wrong! It's push and pull; he's a young monster."

"Ah, the Prince is not so bad," murmured the voice outside the door. "He is having growing pains."

"He's been having them for years," retorted Plumette. "He's a beast."

"Yes, yes, a beast." Lumiere had found his way in. "The worst beast imaginable. With claws! And sharp teeth!"

Plumette started laughing through her tears. Lumiere nodded at the bed; she nodded back, and made room for him to sit beside her nest of feathers.

"He is only a little younger than us," said Lumiere. "What, only 18? Soon he will be a man. We all go through stages of the Beast."

" _You_ didn't," said Plumette.

"Ma cherie! I was the worst beast. Untameable! A threat to man!"

"Oh, only occasionally." Plumette's tears had dried; she felt warm. "Thank you for coming to find me. You are my best friend."

"Ah, Plumette." He was quiet, now. "I would do anything to remain beside you."

His rare gravity made Plumette look up at him, a feather in her hair. "Lumiere? Why did we not...well, if you _were_ a beast—why didn't you...?" She was getting flustered. He raised an eyebrow.

"I thought we chose not to. We did try. And I'm too brazen, and you—ah, you call yourself fragile, though I think you are far stronger than you know. It just seemed to go against what we are."

"But if we...if we decided that, that it was right..."

"Ma cherie?" His pet name for her was hushed; it had never sounded so sacred. "I will never push you. Are you, are you sure?"

She pulled him into a kiss. _Ma coeur_ , he whispered, _my heart_ ; and Plumette's world lit up like the sun, and her world was aflame.

* * *

 

"After the ball?" she whispered. The dark outside the glow of the ballroom made a perfect place for confidences. "They never eat as much as they think they're going to. Take a half-done croquembouche and see what we can make of it?"

"Ah! You know how I love the taste of croquembouche." Lumiere was shining, and she laughed to see him all aglow in his finery. It had been years since she'd come to this castle for the first time, years since they'd met, years since they'd first loved; and her life was rich and golden and full of life, just as she'd come to expect it to be. Every day would be like this, every day forever.

"I'll meet you after the ball," he whispered, taking her hands in his and carelessly stroking each slim finger. "Run up to your room, as fast as my feet can take me. And then we'll make merry with good food and good dancing, and I will kiss that face until it gleams. Unless you would prefer I start now...?"

"No! Go attend to the monster," and she laughed. "You'll have to wait until after the ball to see this face. Save your kisses until you see me again. Lumiere, it shall be like minutes."

"Ma coeur, it shall be years."

She touched his warm hands and danced away. Only later would she look back at this conversation, and think, _yes, years_. It shall be years.

 


End file.
